


want to be good

by mullethyuck



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Cutting, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mania, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 20:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18506311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mullethyuck/pseuds/mullethyuck
Summary: Jeno steps through the sliding doors of the pharmacy without his meds for the third day in a row, raindrops hitting his face, and this is the moment he breaks.





	want to be good

**Author's Note:**

> me venting about what happened today using jeno as a proxy,, that's it that's the fic
> 
> this is probably way more than any of y'all ever wanted to know about where my life is at but anyway please pay attention to the tags keep yourselves safe!!
> 
> (title is from [here](https://youtu.be/uXl_nB2LfUg))

Jeno steps through the sliding doors of the pharmacy without his meds for the third day in a row, raindrops hitting his face, and this is the moment he breaks.

It's so mundane, it's weirdly fitting. He walks to his car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and just sits there. His 1,000 yard stare doesn't register anything past his windshield, eyes glazed over. Then he bursts into tears.

He texts Mark, at some point, because he's blowing up Jeno’s phone since Jeno won't stop leaving him on read and Mark knows something is up. He knows what Jeno’s mania looks like.

Jeno ignores Mark some more when he gets a reply, because he can't deal with breaking the news to his best friend about just how badly he's ruining his own life, and texts Jaemin instead.

“if i come over will u tell mark,” he types. He instantly sees the three little dots that mean Jaemin is typing, and then a “what??” pops up on his screen. “i'm having a panic attack and trying to avoid him,” is all Jeno says back.

“come over,” Jaemin says simply, but Jeno can sense the dread behind his words even if they aren't properly conveyed over text.

Jeno doesn’t go to Jaemin’s, because that would mean he'd have to deal with the consequences of his actions, and he wants to let himself live in denial for just a little longer (his brain helpfully tells him that if he doesn't address the issue, it doesn't exist). Mark still won't stop texting him, and Jeno scrolls through the notifications to see Mark’s growing distress and then finally, “i’m coming to get u,” followed a few minutes later by a frantic, “WHERE ARE YOU YOU AREN’T AT STARBUCKS.” To be fair, Jeno _had_ been at Starbucks like, thirty minutes ago. He just hadn't bothered to tell Mark he was doing anything else.

Jeno switches his phone to airplane mode, effectively drowning out whatever essay Mark is undoubtedly writing him. He didn't tell Jaemin he's not coming, but oh well. He’ll figure it out.

Jeno doesn’t have anywhere to go, really, because it's not like he can go home to a terrified Mark, and he wouldn't want to even if he could. He also can't go to Jaemin’s, for similar reasons, so he just sits there in the parking lot and cries. His stupid tic is back, the compulsive jerk of his shoulder that's a telltale sign he's officially crossed over into the realm of complete instability. He’s laughing through his tears and the twitching of his muscles, which is so fucking dumb because nothing about this is even remotely close to funny. Or well, it shouldn't be.

At some point he turns his car on and pulls out of the parking space, turning onto the main road headed fuck knows where. The thought occurs to him that he could just hop on the highway with nothing but a tank of gas to keep him going, and run as far away from his problems as possible, and it's a near thing but he doesn't. He turns his music up too loud, his air down too low, the bass thumping between his ribs and the sharp blast of cold air grounding him ever so slightly.

He passes a grocery store, and goes in because he really has to pee. He looks at himself in the mirror while he washes his hands, but his brain doesn't register the fact that it's him. Or maybe it does, and he just doesn't believe it. Whatever. The cognitive dissonance ends once he leaves the bathroom and is no longer staring back at his own empty eyes. 

He buys razor blades, because god he needs some relief, and a pack of chocolate because it's like 7 at night and he hasn't eaten a thing all day (unless you count the three sips he took of his latte). The only thing stopping him from buying the biggest bottle of gin he can find and reverting back to his habit of drowning his problems in alcohol is the fact his bank account is negative almost $300 and he only has $9.52 worth of cash in his wallet. He was saving it to buy his medicine, but fuck it. He probably won't be able to get it anytime soon, anyway, since his doctor won't send the new prescription over for some infuriating reason.

Jeno gets back in his car, eats the candy, and takes one more sip of his latte that's now watered down by the melted ice. It's gross, room temperature, so he makes a face and doesn't drink any more. He opens the box of razor blades, a familiar orange rectangle falling out of it. He slides one out of the case, flipping it around in his fingers, and feels instantly comforted by the feeling of the metal against his fingertips. But comfort is not what he's looking for, not by a long shot.

He’d feel weird doing this sitting there in the grocery store parking lot, even though sitting in parking lots dissociating out the ass is starting to become a habit of his, so he just drives to nowhere again. He drags the blade across his skin at every red light he hits, and thirty minutes later there's a row of gashes on the inside of his left forearm nine cuts deep. He usually does this in the shower, and he wishes he had the water pressure to keep the wounds open just a little longer. They scab up way too fast, exposed to the dry air like this.

One arm isn't enough, either, but he can't drive very well dripping blood all over the place, so he pulls into the parking lot of a mostly empty park and turns off the ignition. He starts on his right arm, and the second the blade breaks the skin that familiar flip of his stomach that's somewhere between butterflies and nausea is back. The blood drips onto his thighs, and he watches it soak into the dark fabric of his jeans, mesmerized. As soon as the sting of a fresh wound fades into the dull burn of the beginnings of healing, he makes another cut.

Each time he does, the world immediately comes back into focus. It only last a few heartbeats, the crisp feeling of awareness draining out of him along with his blood. His thighs are sticky now, the little puddles of blood tacky as they dry. It's gross, and uncomfortable, and definitely not sanitary, but Jeno literally could not care less about any of that right now. He barely notices it, really.

He has some tissues stuck in his center console from that one road trip he took with Mark where he caught the flu on the way back, so he rips a few out of the pack and blots his jeans. He sticks one on each arm, too, so he can drive without totally ruining the interior of his car. It doesn't help, but it makes him feel better anyway. His arms are on fire, but he likes the feeling of burning from the inside out, so he presses the tissue deeper into his wounds.

He looks at the clock on his dash, and realizes it's been over five hours since he went off the grid. It's kind of cathartic, even if he knows it won't be once he turns his phone off of airplane mode. So he doesn't, just drives home and stumbles through the door, little red rivers still snaking down his arms. Mark and Jaemin are both there, and their heads snap up at the sound of the door swinging open to bang against the wall. Jeno’s rain drenched, too, like this is some dramatic scene out of a fucking movie.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jaemin says, because really what else _can_ he say. “Lemme run you a bath.” He gets up, scampering off to the bathroom, partly because his protective instincts are kicking in, but mostly because the sight of Jeno dazed and bloody makes him want to scream.

Jeno wants to scream, too, but he doesn't. Mark walks over to where he's frozen in the hallway, pulling him against his chest and carding his hands through Jeno’s hair that's still mussed up from the weather and Jeno running his own shaking hands through it in desperation. “I'm sorry.”

Jeno just shakes his head, because he feels like if he speaks something inside of him will break and he'll never recover.

“I was so scared. I love you.” Jeno already knows it, but it's a nice sentiment anyway. “We don't have to talk about it right now, okay? Go take a bath, it'll help you feel better.”

He lets go, and Jeno trudges over to the bathroom in a haze. Jaemin’s got a bath ready for him (no bubbles because they irritate his cuts) and he closes the door behind him with a soft click.

Jeno still sits in the bathtub long after the water has gone cold, goosebumps pricking at his skin, and picks at his scabs. Mark and Jaemin let him be, because they think he's relaxing or meditating or something. He relishes in the quiet, the blank slate that his mind has become in the wake of the pain. 

He bleeds into the water, watching the syrupy red mingle with the clear like some kind of demented lava lamp that makes his bath smell like rust, as Mark and Jaemin sit in the other room, oblivious. Sometimes self harm looks a lot like self care.

The post-cutting euphoria will hit him later, but for now he just enjoys the static.

**Author's Note:**

> jeno bby i'm so sorry love


End file.
